Broken Mirror (44 page)

Victor dug in his heels and stopped on the welcome mat. “We need to move on.”

“We can’t yet,” she said. “Though maybe we should split up.”

“What?”

“Lucky and Bandit are looking for you, but they’re tracking me. If we split up . . .”

He saw the logic, but he couldn’t help feeling that now that he’d brought her to her group, she was ready to get rid of him. “Where would I go?”

“Fine, stay here. We can talk after I help Chico.” She turned to enter the house.

“Wait, I’m coming.” Victor rushed to his car, grabbed his backpack, and hoisted it on his shoulders.

They went inside. The house looked as if every surface had been worn away, nicked, or cracked. Dirt caked the hallway.

The kitchen, by contrast, sparkled. Utensils were mounted on the wall, fitting cozily within their painted outlines. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling. The stove’s gleaming chrome reflected a meticulous and obsessive cleanliness. Apparently, the Puros were brutes and slobs everywhere except in the kitchen.

Victor and Elena continued to a room with two couches, several overstuffed bookshelves sagging against the walls, and a sliding glass door that led to the backyard.

“I have bandages, antibiotics, and some surgical tools, just in case,” Elena announced.

Xavi waved her to get to work. He stood next to Victor, towering over him. His silver-blue eyes were set in a round, powerful head. He probably weighed as much as Victor and Elena combined. Large masses of muscles prevented his arms from hanging straight.

Victor stood as tall as he could while not seeming to try too hard and said, “I’m Vic.”

“She told me.”

Chico reclined on one of the couches, which had been draped with a plastic tarp to protect it from blood, a dubious effort since Victor was sure he could spot at least three, maybe four dried stains on the filthy carpet. Might as well paint the whole room in blood.

Elena knelt beside Chico. He looked at her fearfully and said, “I don’t think the bleeding stopped.”

“I’m going to take a look, clean the cut, and seal it up,” she said. “Then we’ll get you some antibiotics and a sleeper pill
—
I assume that’s okay.” She said, looking pointedly at Xavi. He nodded. Elena brushed the hair from Chico’s forehead. “In a minute you can take the most luxurious nap you’ve had in a long time. Ready?”

Chico nodded, still scared, but less visibly anxious.

“This shirt is obviously not going to make it,” she said cheerfully as she clipped it away with scissors. “Xavi, Victor, bring me some warm damp towels.”

Victor followed Xavi to a closet to gather towels. They ran the warm water in the bathroom, wetted the towels, and returned them to the table next to Chico.

Elena cleaned around the wound with the towels. A trickle of blood oozed out, but the inside appeared to have mostly clotted. She pulled on a pair of gloves and opened a tin of antibiotic permapaste.

“This is going to hurt,” she said. “I don’t want you to twist or flex or do anything that’s going to aggravate the wound.” She smiled at Chico. “That’s my job. Victor, take his hands. Not too hard, just to remind him not to move.”

Victor took a few hesitant steps to the couch and clasped each of Chico’s hands, applying pressure to pin them deep into the soft cushions.

Elena said, “Breathe calmly and concentrate on the feeling in your hands. Here we go.”

She scooped a generous portion of the permapaste goop over her fingers, rubbing them with her thumb to spread it around. Then she inserted them into the open fissure, which provoked a gasp from Chico. He squeezed Victor’s hands, and Victor squeezed back.

Elena brushed the permapaste inside the wound, leaving a generous coating. Blood began to pool in the crevasse. She’d disturbed a proto-clot. She seemed to realize what she’d done because she soaked the blood with a dry towel and grabbed an aerosol can of quick-clotting agent and sprayed the tissue.

Victor noticed a change coming across her features. The anxious scowl she usually wore lightened into concern and empathy. Her eyes brightened, her hands moved with competence, and her gaze flicked between Chico’s wound, his face, and his body. Victor could tell she was watching every movement, every breath, every twitch of the man’s face. Her hands
—
wiping away blood, dipping her fingers into the jar of ointment, spreading it in the wound
—
were swift and sure.

Elena was in her element, the way he felt when analyzing gene sequencing computations. Laying on hands and healing were the things that gave meaning to her life. The knowledge made Victor wince. She wanted to feel the same way by helping Victor, but his problems were too complex, too intangible, so she was never satisfied.

Words left his mouth before he knew he intended to speak. “Is that what I am to you?”

She didn’t seem to hear him. Her focus never wavered from helping Chico.

Victor spoke louder. “Elena, what am I to you?”

She looked up, puzzled.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

“Not now, Victor,” she said, looking down again at Chico.

“Am I a health care project?” He couldn’t stop himself. The words kept coming out, hurtful, rising from a pit of pain in his chest. “A salve to your bruised conscience? A way for you to keep going? What am I to you?”

“Who knows?” she answered cryptically. “This isn’t really the time.”

“Come on, man,” Chico said, lifting his head. “Let her work.”

Xavi raised an eyebrow, but he was mercifully silent.

Victor wondered how many people she’d patched up during her time with the Puros and why it hadn’t been enough, why she’d returned to stims even at the risk of being thrown out, and why she’d decided on helping Victor for her next attempt at self-salvation. He let go of Chico’s hands, stood, and turned away, looking through the glass door at the back of the house. The yard glowed under the midday sun.

Chico was breathing in slow, deep breaths, apparently doing his best to move beyond the pain.

Victor glanced back and saw Elena wipe around each edge of the cut with gauze. She stuffed another wad of it into the wound and taped it up. Her voice was carefully neutral as she said, “The paste will slowly dissolve as the tissue starts to heal. We need to replace the gauze every day at first. It’s going to make a great scar.”

Chico said to Xavi, “Make sure you’ve got enough ink for my next scartoo.”

Victor saw Elena smile. She fished more pills from the med kit and helped Chico lift his head to swallow them. She stood, placed all the bloody articles into a plastic bag, washed her hands in the bathroom, and strode to the front entrance, not once making eye contact with Victor. Both he and Xavi followed her, while the other Puros remained with Chico.

Elena told Xavi, “He’ll be out for a few hours. He needs to take sedatives and antibiotics every few hours after that. It’ll be a few weeks before he can get up and move like normal. You guys can handle finding a catheter and a bedpan?”

Xavi nodded.

“Okay, there’s something I need to ask you.” She pulled Xavi into the dining room.

The other Puro approached Victor, eyeballing him cautiously. “I’m Davinth.”

“Victor.”

Davinth’s short grey hair pointed in every direction like dandelion fluff. Though he was skinny and much thinner than Xavi, muscles stood out on his forearms. He said, “Elena’s not exactly someone who’s welcome around here. She’s trouble.”

Victor stayed silent.

“The kind of trouble that can’t stay sober.”

“That’s how you recruit people, isn’t it, by finding addicts? You must expect them to relapse sometimes.”

“Yeah, it don’t always stick, but we try. They fall down enough, we tell ’em we’re better off without ’em.”

Victor said with iron certainty, “She’s been clean for months. You’d be lucky to have her back.”

The Puro nodded toward Chico. “If he lives, I’d say she’s earned another shot. Not up to me. You want to put in a good word for her, go talk to Xavi.”

Victor turned toward the front of the house, where Elena and Xavi were having a shouting match that seemed to be gaining in strength. The Handy 1000 vibrated in his pants. He took it out and looked at the display. It was a feed request from Ozie marked urgent. Victor walked to the glass door, slid it open, stepped into the heat, and sat down on the lip of a rickety unshaded deck. He opened the feed.

“Victor, I have news.” Ozie’s face flickered, but through the static Victor could tell he was smiling.

“What is it?” Victor asked.

“Pearl’s here!”

“Hello, Victor,” she said.

She was safe. Good. “Pearl, are you okay?”

“Fine. Fine. Not too badly bruised. And you? How are you feeling?”

“I’m running out of herbs,” Victor said.

“We’ll send some to you soon.”

Relief washed over him.

Ozie said, “Vic, that’s not all. The processing went off without a hitch. We have the mirror resonance syndrome gene sequence. There is a problem though.”

“What?”

“The King of Las Vegas.”

It was starting to sound as if Ozie blamed all his problems on a mythical ruler, a fiendish opponent responsible for the ills of the world
—
although Victor didn’t mind hearing Ozie’s theories, since it made him feel like the sane one of the pair.

Ozie continued, “He’s sniffing me out. I found tracker worms in the dark grid. Every time I take one out, five more pop up. They’re going to find us eventually. We’re going to lay low. You might not hear from us for a while.”

“Wait, I need to ask a favor,” Victor said. “Elena is chipped. Is there any way to block people from tracking her?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Ozie’s face faded from the display.

The sun beat down from almost directly above. Victor’s head felt full of steam, and his stomach flipped.

He was familiar enough with his symptoms to know they were rearing up again. It must be around noon or a bit later. He pulled a vial of the fumewort tincture from his pocket. Thank the Laws, Pearl would send more soon. He would have to reserve a MeshLocker at the train station.

Tipping his head back, he poured the tincture down his throat. It was a game he played, trying to bypass his taste buds. Enough drops missed their mark, however, and the smoky, oily, and astringent taste flooded his mouth. The vapor stung his nose.

Victor’s stomach flipped again, this time urgently. There was no food to cushion the arrival of the tincture against his soft muscles. He should eat. He got up and stumbled inside, carefully picking his way around the furniture and Chico.

In the hallway, Elena and Xavi were still discussing their plans. Elena looked at Victor quizzically. “What was all that about earlier? Are you okay?”

“Fine. Need food,” Victor said, brushing past her. He opened the chiller door and almost cried out in delight. The cold box was filled with fresh vegetables and greenery. So much produce
—
a large bunch of carrots with their leafy tops, bags of lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, and plastic containers hiding more culinary delights. It was the last thing he had expected to find. He could make a satisfying and hearty salad. His eyes were also drawn to a dark, dense, and seedy bread on the bottom shelf. It looked eminently nourishing.

“We need to talk about what we’re going to do,” Elena said from the doorway.

“Do we?” Victor asked. A little voice inside his head told him not to listen to her, to forget the food, to leave right away, not to spend another minute in the Puros’ stronghold.

“Victor, I think we should go,” Elena said. “I don’t want to lead them here.”

“Oh, yeah? I mean, I agree, but I was going to make a salad. Do you
—
”

“Hold up there,” Xavi said, pushing Victor away from the counter. “Lead who here? What’s going on?”

“Hey, Xavi,” Davinth called from upstairs. “There’s a van parked outside. I think it’s the Corps.”

Davinth popped into the kitchen, yelling, “Those Corps fuckers found us, and I want to know how!”

“Show me,” Xavi said. He and Davinth ran into the dining room and crouched by the windows. Elena was close behind.

Victor’s gaze drifted to his hands, which held the salad precursors he so desperately wanted to assemble into a meal. He raised a carrot to his mouth, took a large bite, and followed the others. In the dining room, Elena stood while the Puros crouched at the window, their faces pressed close. Xavi’s fingers pried the blinds apart.

“I can’t see anyone,” said Xavi.

“You can see them from upstairs,” Davinth said. “They’re watching the house. No doubt about it.”

Victor paced behind the two Puros, straining to see outside, but it was useless. The two men were huge, immobile stones blocking his view. A bag of wet lettuce dripped from one hand. From his other hand dangled carrots by their leafy green tops. He took another big bite. If he remained calm, he told himself, nothing bad would come to pass.

“How long have they been there?” Xavi asked.

“Not more than ten minutes,” Davinth answered.

The muscles on their necks flexed and tensed as they tried to get a better view outside. An artery that ran down the side of Xavi’s face pulsed like something was trying to free itself from inside.

Victor’s heart began to race—his own fault for not keeping his emotional distance. He lurched toward the back of the house.

“I have to go,” he announced to the living room, empty except for Chico lying unconscious on the plastic-wrapped couch. The sunny yard beckoned to him through the sliding glass door.

He heard footsteps and turned. Elena stood close with her arms crossed. She gave him a hard look. “Victor, don’t do anything stupid. You’re safer in here than out there.”

He leaned forward and, in a low voice, said, “It could be Lucky and Bandit.”

“We’re safe for now. Let’s try to keep it that way. Running won’t help. It could get you hurt.”

He waved the carrots at Chico. “Yeah, but staying here could get me killed.” He took a few breaths to calm himself. Maybe the Puros were overreacting. They didn’t seem all that bright.